


We Can Rebuild Him, We Have The Technology (The Bad Copy Remix)

by havisham



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Bad Romance - Freeform, Banter, Cyberpunk, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jason was Batman's until he got blown up.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Rebuild Him, We Have The Technology (The Bad Copy Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Runespoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rewiring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/259064) by [Runespoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor). 



> Jason Todd, robo-zombie, out for love. And revenge. Mostly revenge.

He died. 

And he _remembered_ dying, of being beaten and then torn apart, of being pulped by the blast. He remembered it. His bones shattered, his organs were crushed. There was no way to come back from that. No way to survive. And he hadn’t. But he woke up on an operating table anyway, and Bruce looked up, elbows deep in blood, guts and wiring, and said, “Welcome back, son.” 

That was that.

Except it wasn't. He was alive, but then again, he wasn't. He was this, metal fused to bone, circuitry under skin, eyes, gunmetal blue and a constant feed. And he was still not Bruce’s son. 

It was later, when Barbara explained, the bones of her face standing stark against the harsh fluorescent lighting. “It was necessary,” she said, lips pressed tight. “ _He_ felt it was necessary,” she corrected herself, looking even grimmer. 

He tried to walk, but ends up sprawling on the floor, more graceless than before. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. (A screw loose, as they could -- _did_ \-- say.) He was prone to frequent breakdowns, to serious malfunctions. He came back to the cave, time and time again, with loosened joints, broken circuits. He stared ahead of him as Bruce patched him up. They both stayed stubbornly silent. It was punishment, a fitting one or not. 

No one was exactly surprised that Jason went after the Joker. He did it as soon as he could, because, of course he _would._ They cut off him off quickly, stopped him dead in his tracks, but not before he had finished up and had done some damage. And he had learned to do a lot of damage, as Batman learned, pulling him off the whimpering clown. The Bat looked thunderous, Jason bared his teeth, cracked enamel catching in the lurid green light. 

The crowbar landed on the floor with a dull thud, a casket closing shut. 

Jason was put out of commission for a long time, and time ticked slowly by for him, in a half-sleeping, half-scheming daze. Months passed, maybe even years. He thought he was forgotten, was sure of it. The boy in the glass case, stuffed and put on exhibition. Though not for public view -- his audience had always numbered in the single digits. 

He busted out, eventually, because he _always_ busted out. He had long been replaced - there was nothing _here_ for him. So he took what he needed, and left a shattered glass case, by way of remembrance. He put Gotham behind him, and met all sorts of interesting new people. 

One of which was tall, willowy woman with eyes like a flame. He challenged her to a fight. Cocky, full of himself, he didn't think she was much of a challenge. 

She blew the hair from her eyes (as hair-styles went, her current one was attractive, but logistically flawed) and brought the hundred and sixty pound bag of Gotham's finest down on his ass, with only a mouthful of dust to show for all his efforts.

So. Jason wasn’t quite as good as he thought was, obviously. She straightened, and pushed her dark hair from her eyes again. She spoke with a faint accent -- unplaceable, from anywhere -- and introduced herself as Talia. (Oh, yeah, _that_ Talia.) And she, kindly enough, was willing to overlook his earlier rudeness. He cursed quietly as he reached for his -- Ah, her boot pressed hard against his chest. 

She shook her head only once. 

He relaxed. “Hey, you got me.” His hands were free, his palms open. _Unarmed_. 

“Nice to meet you at last, Jason.” Her smile was a dangerous as her kicks. 

She looked like she smelled _amazing_ , he thought, a little hazily.

Talia became, unofficially, his mentor, and Jason had a very real problem with his mentors, as experience showed. He got too involved, too dependent. _Too needy._ (Also, confrontational, aggressive, and pushing.) 

But Talia was nothing, _nothing_ like Bruce. She took what she wanted, and gave what she needed to give. And Jason was grateful, _grateful_ not to be confused with any talk of love or kinship. (Of belonging.) Talia was always straightforward with him. She double-crossed him only once, and that had been his fault.

And really, the things they (eventually) did would have made their old Beloved’s head spin right around. 

 

And, for the record, she _did_ smell amazing. Like water in the desert, or some idiotic bullshit like that. Jason wasn't a poet. He was missing the literary expansion pack. 

\+ 

He went back to Gotham once, to see the new kid. And, yeah, to break into the Cave, because, hey, _he was in town_. It would be rude not to do so. Really. 

Jason Todd's run of bad luck was epic in scope (he was born fucked by fate, everything else was just the sideshow) spanning years, bodies and continents. So, of course, he broke into the Cave, just as both of the Dynamic Duo were taking a breather. 

Robin, now, Robin was tiny and unexpectedly fierce, and didn't even stop to quip. Not even once. 

Batman pulled Robin off Jason, and dismissed the former with a curt nod. Then he stared down at Jason like he was just about the worst thing he could have imagined, this _zombie-robo-monstrosity_ of a so-called son. Jason laughed, squirmed under his weight, pulling Bruce down by the cape, to his level. His voice is lighter than it had been for years as he said, "What's the matter? You mad that I didn't call ahead?" 

They always said that Jason was _Bruce's_ like it meant something (other than the fact that Bruce could not deal with loss very well), but that also meant that Bruce was _Jason's_ , as much as Bruce could be _anyone's_. 

(Gotham didn't count in this. It wasn't a person, after all.) 

"You didn't retire me, you know," Jason said later, stretched out on one of the floor-mats. He lazily flicked a glace at Bruce, but he was retreating fast behind his cape and tights, and emotional unavailability. And god, really. A cape. _Tights._

"I quit, just like him." Jason got up, and stretched, his back protesting against this new abuse. He nodded sagely to the newest case in the Cave, which held a black-and-blue suit and a domino mask. The case was new, gleaming. 

A growled _get out_ was his only answer. 

And he got out, and passed Robin on his way up the stairs. Jason flipped him a bird, the kid looked deeply unimpressed. 

 

+

Now.

Cassandra was a revelation. 

She was generations ahead of him, it was like comparing the walls and walls of computers Bruce had once kept in the cave to a microchip the size of a mote of dust. Jason was a bucket of rusting bolts compared to her, though he reminded himself that it really wasn’t fair to compare. (To him.) 

And she could -- 

She did _amazing_ things, ducking bullets being the least of them. 

But as far removed as she was from Jason, she did have a familiarity about her. The same programming ran through them both. And Jason prided himself in picking out Bruce’s handiwork. 

(Barbara’s imprint too, was easy to see.) 

“How is he, the old gargoyle?” He asked this later, much later, when the fighting had lightened up, but not, entirely subsided. He was curled up on the couch, cleaning an (unloaded) gun, and watching her under hooded eyes. Intent. 

She matched his gaze, cool brown eyes measuring him up. Reading him. 

“The same,” she said after a long moment. 

At least there were _some_ constants in life. 

 

And they had to move on soon enough, because unstable situations had the tendency to blow, sky-high, and there was finally no one left to fight and no one left to bury. The vehicle Jason had liberated was almost battered as he was, but it worked well enough. They sped away from the burning city, leaving only smoke and rubble behind them. 

Cass was slung low on the passenger seat, a small dark shape, closed off from all conversation. If he wasn’t totally sure she was -- ah -- _a friend of Arnold_ , he’d guess her affliction was something even more exotic, say, vampirism. Vampire cyborg? Could that be a thing? 

He said so, and all he got was an owlish look of surprise. Finally, she asked, “Do you ever stop talking?” 

“Nope. Got the gift of gab! And Bruce, well, the man liked his puns. Loved that shit. Made him feel more _alive_ , the quips. It's all warm bodies, a smart mouth, and short pants. Bruce definitely had a type. Man, did he have a type. It was pretty creepy, now that I think about it. And me, well, I was... Uh, a bad copy. Corrupted, you know? A waste. Maybe you don’t know. It’s not the kind of thing that gets told, maybe.” 

His fingers pressed on steering wheel, and he glanced over at Cass. She looked vaguely horrified when he took a deep breath, and went on. 

“Anyway. Bruce was such a sick fuck. (I loved him.) Rebuilt me, you know? Practically from scratch, paying particular attention to my handsome mug. (I know. I’m gorgeous.) But he didn’t always know he was doing, and it’s probably his fault that it hurts when I pee, not that I need to pee. But still. I got to deal with it somehow. I know chattiness doesn’t exactly the most desirable thing for a brooding anti-hero to have, but what can I say? I’m a rebel.” 

Cass huddled lower, managing to dig herself deeper into her seat. “He missed you.” 

He squinted at her, the late afternoon, early evening sun dazzling him. He pursed his lips slightly. “What? Didn’t hear you there.” 

Louder, she said, “Robin.” And she gave him a tiny smile. 

“Excuse me, but who’s driving here?” Robin always rode shotgun, after all.

She shrugged, a elegant gesture, empty of meaning. Jason turned his attention back to the road. “Yeah, yeah, you should be glad that I haven't dropped you on the side of the road.” 

And they drove off into the sunset. The sunrise. 

(Whatever.)

**Author's Note:**

> It was not until I was deep into this remix when I paused and thought, wait! _Is Jason even a cyborg in the original?_
> 
> But, by then, I was too wedded to the idea of him being a dinky Mackintosh to Cass' gleaming new iWhatever, so...


End file.
